


the wardrobe mistress always wins

by urbancate



Series: The Wardrobe Mistress Series [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF is dirty dirty lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 08:08:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6696766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbancate/pseuds/urbancate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no excuse for this. This is fangirly self-indulgence at its finest and worst. First in a series. Because Karl Urban is my crack and I'm going straight to hell but I really don't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wardrobe mistress always wins

It is new American noir. Deep in the Delta. Sticky, steamy, sweaty. Sex.

It is Tennessee Williams meets True Blood meets Crazy something. It is going to take him to Venice and Sundance and Toronto. It is going to take him to the next level. Artistically speaking, speaking of awards.

This is his agent’s view of the thing.

Karl’s view is that he picked a helluva time to start listening to the careerist slant an agent is obligated to throw into the mix every so often, even if they have an understanding: that Karl will do what he wants and have fun doing it, and a cheerful fuck off to the rest of the game.

So here he is in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the Deep South, in a smaller but pivotal role in a small but bound-to-be-critically-loved movie, no, correction – film.

His hair hasn’t been this long in years, his face is covered in five-days of perma-scruff, and he’s wearing a wifebeater and jeans. And suspenders.

The suspenders have just been the subject of an argument with the wardrobe mistress and the creative director and then the director himself. An argument Karl has lost. So he snaps them a little, still hating the damn things because they belong on a man with a beer gut and a bald spot and he has neither of those things. The character doesn’t either. Cheerful “Fuck you”s to everyone, he thinks. Snap.

He does the scene, snaps the suspenders and snarls through the drawl and innuendo and leaves the innocent female protagonist a little less innocent and a lot hot and bothered.

He is heading back to his trailer when he sees her, the damn wardrobe mistress. Renee, who everyone calls Nee, who just bested him in an argument about his own fucking character. She is headed in the opposite direction and they pass within a foot of each other. She looks away, avoiding his eyes, as if she feels bad about winning the argument. Which he thinks his strange. Or maybe he really has been that badly behaved.

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbing her upper arm before she is out of reach. She turns around at his touch. “I’m not going over it again, Mr. Urban.”

Ouch. He has been beastly today, he acknowledges to himself. Ill-tempered and bratty, prima donna shit he generally avoids.

He sucks in a breath, takes in the tight knot of dark blond hair at the nape of her neck, the sweat skimming across her collarbone. Okay, so the scene has left him hot and bothered, too, because he wants to taste her sweat, undo her hair. Maybe he just wants to win.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shrugging a little.

“Thank you.” She smiles.

“Want a drink? Cry pax over something cool?” He nods in the direction of his trailer, snaps a black suspender as if he is still the character – sinful and unapologetic.

“Sure.” He thinks she knows.

The door is barely closed behind them and she grabs the suspenders and he knows she knows.

“You have no idea how fucking hot these are, do you?” Her breath feels cool against his skin.

“I just might be starting to to understand.” He twists his fingers into her hair, breaking it free.

She pulls on the damn suspenders and he pulls on her hair and their mouths collide, as if this is the natural evolution of the argument.

Life imitating art, or something, because he is sinful and unapologetic and the scene is sticky, steamy. The scene is sex.

Laid out on the couch with her skirt pushed up around her waist, she is pleading. He is tasting her, taking his damn sweet time, because she is sweet and all that whimpered begging means he is winning. It’s not pax, but she cries out something as she comes across his tongue.

She pushes the suspenders down as he rises over her, unbuttoning his jeans and pushing those down, too. He might think about it later, the irony of fucking the wardrobe mistress while he is still in wardrobe, while they are both half-dressed. But all he is thinking about now is the sex and the sweat and the heat, stroking in and out of her wet, focused heat as she begs some more.

And then even those thoughts stutter and stop as he comes with a groan and collapses into her.

She pulls on a suspender.

Snap.


End file.
